


heartlines

by cosmicwarden (necrotype)



Series: oh my heart [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone Is Gay, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 13:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11381412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/pseuds/cosmicwarden
Summary: It's the one where Konoha is run by a lesbian who doesn't realize she's head-over-heels for her best friend





	heartlines

**Author's Note:**

> context: hashirama, madara, and tobirama are women (hashirama is trans). izuna is still alive. everyone is really fucking gay. it's not very good, but it is very gay, so there's that.

The Uzumaki arrived in Konoha with a half-dozen shinobi, a few clan leaders and advisors, and a marriage proposal. It was unfortunate, Hashirama thought, that the only people in charge of Konoha were people with an incredible lack of diplomatic skills, but they stood at the gate anyways and waited to make a decent impression.

Izuna had some political inclination, fortunately, but Tobirama looked like she would rather be anywhere else. Madara eyed the delegation with disdain, her face twisted into an unpleasant frown. Hashirama had come to realize that she didn’t purposefully look so disgusted, but the nuance would definitely be lost on their guests. She felt too deeply was all: her anger was rooted into her core, her happiness was infectious, her disinterest was horrifyingly palpable.

The village wasn’t exactly a village yet, but it had evolved from tents haphazardly placed around the valley into wooden structures, mostly uniform in design, built from Hashirama’s wood jutsu. It looked somewhat presentable, which was more than she could say for the four of them.

“Maybe we should’ve proposed a marriage with the Senju for an alliance,” Izuna mused. He glanced at Tobirama with a grin. The corner of her mouth twitched, begrudgingly, but she kept staring straight ahead.

“You should’ve tried to marry her instead of running into her sword then,” Madara snapped scathingly, but she still looked at him fondly. She couldn’t ever really hate her brother, which was something Hashirama understood well, even if her sister insisted on picking fights with Madara whenever possible.

“Sister, that’s not what I meant.” He sighed, elbowing Madara and giving her a pointed look. She glared back with flat, black eyes. “Besides,” he continued, waving his hand around nonchalantly. “Hashirama healed me, and we agreed on an alliance anyways. A win-win!”

Madara let out a long breath, like she was trying to calm herself. She clenched and unclenched her hands a few times, but she didn’t say anything else. Her eyes slid over to Izuna’s chest, where he still had a jagged scar from where Tobirama stabbed him, then over to Tobirama with a dark look.

Hashirama reached out and touched her arm lightly. “I think I did a good job healing him, myself,” she said, forcing a pleasant note into her voice. Madara didn’t meet her wide smile, but she grumbled lowly and her posture relaxed marginally.

This was an old argument, and not one to have in front of a delegation from Whirlpool, particularly since one of them was to marry Mito, a high ranking ninja from what she understood. Not Madara, Hashirama thought immediately, not if they wanted to alliance to stick, and of course not herself. The thought of marrying Mito was absurd for—for some reason; she was sure it’d come to her if she thought about it long enough.

Relieved, Hashirama turned back to face the Uzumaki shinobi as they got closer. Their hair was shockingly red, she noticed.

“They’re almost here,” Tobirama murmured, flatly. “Try to act like the head of your clan.” Hashirama could hear Madara grinding her teeth together, and she cuffed Tobirama’s shoulder warningly.

Madara’s eyes glittered dangerously, in the way they used to before they made peace between their clans and founded the village, and she stormed off without bothering to greet the Uzumaki, leaving Hashirama to scramble up some sort of excuse.

* * *

Mito was raised as a proper kunoichi, which wasn’t entirely unexpected considering that she was from Whirlpool and not the war-torn mainland. It was strange, still, to see the way she carried herself while walking through the village, like some noble woman instead of a fighter. Hashirama, with her scarred hands and cheeks, looked like a ninja even without her armor, but Mito beside her looked almost delicate in flowing white robes, with a soft smile to match. She had an impeccable posture that made Hashirama feel like she was endlessly slouching.

Hashirama almost felt jealous of Mito’s effortless beauty and confidence, and briefly she wondered how it would look on her instead—odd, likely, and so different from formless robes or worn-out armor, but nice.

“You seem confused,” Mito said. Her voice was lilting, amused, and Hashirama realized that she had been staring for longer than was acceptable.

“Maybe,” she agreed, rubbing the back of her neck. “There were no kunoichi in my clan. Proper ones, I mean. My sister and I weren’t taught to be subtle in the way we fight, just strong and fast enough to survive another battle. The Uchiha were the same, I think, because Madara acts less like a kunoichi than I do. It’s difficult to get her into robes instead of armor.” She was rambling again; Tobirama would be annoyed.

Mito quirked an eyebrow, and she waved her fan gently in front of her face. “Hm.” The hum sounded surprised, but before Hashirama could comment, she continued, “Subtlety is the way of my clan in general, for kunoichi or otherwise. Seals tend to be quiet until they’re not, after all.” She motioned to the slips of paper hanging from her ears, swaying with every step. Ornamental pieces, which happened to have text written in the decorative script typical of Uzumaki fuinjutsu on them. 

Hashirama didn’t bother containing her bark of laughter, impressed and delighted all at once. Mito gave her a small smile in return. “I believe you would like some of our tricks.” She tilted her head, and sunlight caught on something metal in her hair, flickering for a brief second.

Bewildered, Hashirama edged closer, until the silvery glint was recognizable. “Senbon?” Her hair was littered with them, little metal needles woven into the red strands, nearly imperceptible. “Dangerous,” she added, appreciatively, as she nodded to herself.

“Useful, especially when coated with poisons.” Mito looked at her slyly over her fan, like she was sharing some great joke. “These are clean, of course.”

“Of course,” Hashirama echoed, and she discreetly put an extra half-step of distance between them.

* * *

Madara spent most of her time fuming these days, it seemed. Their relationship had become frustratingly fragile. Hashirama was used to Madara snarling at her, screaming until she ran out of air in her lungs, but her cold silence was worse. She stalked around the village, eyeing the wooden buildings like she might set them ablaze herself, just to be spiteful, and she refused to speak for more than a few seconds to anyone who wasn’t her brother.

At first, Hashirama was unconcerned: even on the best of days, Madara was aggressive and rude, and she often had low points, bouts of quiet and moody anger that lasted for a few days, when she holed up in her shared home with Izuna and refused to see Hashirama or anyone else. Truthfully, Hashirama couldn’t blame her, since she often felt the same way—albeit on a (much) smaller scale—after having to fight her entire life, losing family members one by one until it was only her sister left.

But she couldn’t deny that Madara was giving her the cold shoulder for some inexplicable reason. Although Madara still attended meetings as one of Hashirama’s advisors, she only answered questions curtly, ignoring even the most obvious jabs from Tobirama with her face set into a mask of disinterest, and she left immediately when the meetings ended, before Hashirama could strike up a conversation. Her interactions with the Uzumaki were incredibly brief, and mostly consisted of Madara coldly glaring at them, like she was ready to brawl and maim them on the dirt streets outside.

She acted like Hashirama didn’t even exist on the same plane as her. They had been at odds for years, and somehow, they were back to it again, and Hashirama wanted to scream with frustration.

Izuna, much to her chagrin, was not helpful in understanding the problem.

“What’s going on with you and Madara?” he asked, lounging in her office like he belonged there.

Izuna was remarkably calm, in a way that Madara decidedly wasn’t, and he harbored a special fondness for Hashirama. A remnant of her healing him from death after Tobirama sliced him open, she supposed, though truthfully he got along surprisingly well with her sister too. When bored, he enjoyed sitting in her office (“Fancy,” he called it, with a smirk directed toward the large hat sitting on the table) and idly chatting, speaking in a measured sort of way she found soothing to listen to.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Hashirama admitted. She gestured at him with a wrinkled paper, covered in plans for the academy Tobirama was designing. “She hasn’t talked to me in ages.” She thought back to their last encounter, three days previous, when Madara had completely avoided her eyes and wrenched herself away when Hashirama tried to grab her wrist. Her insides twisted uncomfortably at the thought.

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. He shrugged, and twirled his fingers together, starting at them intently. “No, she hasn’t said much to me either. I haven’t really seen her this week. Did you two fight or something?”

Hashirama sighed and set the drawing plans down among the other stacks of things to do. “No, I don’t think so.” She stopped and mentally tried to backtrack when she had last spoken to Madara successfully. “She’s been avoiding me since the Uzumaki delegation showed up.”

Her voice was incredibly forlorn, and she smothered the embarrassment before it could show on her face. Ridiculous to get so upset over the situation; surely, Madara would want to see her at some point, like she always did, and then she would get back to aggressively teasing Hashirama until she got annoyed with Hashirama’s fake dismay.

“Oh!” Izuna said, surprised again. “That’s—I mean—well, you obviously—” he continued, in a great rush, before stopping himself entirely. His cheeks were deeply flushed.

Hashirama blinked for a few moments, and tried to organize her swirling thoughts into some cohesive idea of what he was talking about. “I obviously what?”

Izuna made a thin, distressed sound. “You and Mito have been together a lot recently,” he said reluctantly, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Yes,” Hashirama said slowly. She narrowed her eyes at the sudden change in topic, and Izuna quickly looked away from her and focused instead on a point a few feet above her head. “We need the Uzumaki clan as our allies, and they don’t want to move to Konoha, understandably. Mito and I have been discussing her marriage proposal to make the alliance terms easier.”

“That is—well, yes, I know.” There was a long pause. Izuna began tapping the table in a quick rhythm with his index finger. “Madara knows too,” he says meaningfully.

Hashirama huffed. “She wants this village to succeed as much as I do. Why would she be upset that I’m trying to get more allies?”

Izuna looked so pained that Hashirama started to stand with a hand outstretched, gathering chakra in her palm for a diagnostic, before he waved her off and jumped to his feet.

“I’m leaving now,” he explained, already halfway out her window. “You should talk to Madara,” he added, and then he jumped out the window.

“I’ve been trying!” Hashirama called out, but he didn’t respond.

* * *

Hashirama did not particularly believe in subtlety, even if imitating Mito was on some level appealing. She wasn’t an idiot, no matter how oblivious or carefree she acted, but honestly she wasn’t good at being subtle. She seemed to always charge into situations head-on and spoke impulsively with her emotions. And besides, subtlety didn’t help when founding the village, and definitely not when speaking to Madara and Tobirama, stubborn as they both were. Not that Madara was speaking to her at the moment, but the sentiment was the same.

“What do you think of Mito?” she asked her sister conversationally, with a sweet smile. Her voice dripped with forced innocence, but she couldn’t be bothered to say it any differently.

Tobirama didn’t look up from her notes, where she was meticulously writing out the mechanics of another jutsu idea. “Her involvement in the alliance negotiations has been helpful. She also appears to be an adept ninja, which should help strengthen the village, especially with new sealing techniques.”

“Pragmatic, as usual,” Hashirama sighed. She stared down at her tea, slowly cooling despite the hot and muggy summer air around them.

It was silent for a long while, so long that Hashirama was sure that Tobirama had dropped the subject entirely, until she cleared her throat quietly and set down her brush. She looked somewhat unsettled, definitely bordering on agitated.

“Her chakra is,” Tobirama began. She stopped and contemplated the papers before her for a moment before continuing, slowly, cautiously, “Very warm.”

“Warm,” Hashirama repeated. She tried, unsuccessfully, to smother her immediate smile.

“It’s nice,” Tobirama ground out, like it physically pained her to say the words. She leveled Hashirama with an intense glare, daring her to say anything else.

Hashirama heaved an overdramatic sigh, and laid back on the grass to stare up at the summer sun. “You never let me tease, even though I’m your older sister.”

“Stop talking,” Tobirama said, and she kicked Hashirama’s shin harder than was probably necessary.

* * *

Two weeks after the Uzumaki delegation arrived in Konoha, Hashirama met with them to cement their alliance, and she dragged her two advisors along with her. It was clear that Madara knew she was a diplomatic nightmare; she wasn’t charismatic enough to maintain polite conversation without starting an incident, and she often made her disdain and mistrust too clear. And her discomfort in these sorts of situations only made her more defensive, more liable to slip up and snarl some insult. (They were well-thought out, Hashirama admitted, and perhaps warranted; no one could claim that Madara couldn’t be astute when she wanted to be.) 

Maybe it was a bit cruel of Hashirama to keep dragging her to these types of meetings, but she wanted Madara there. They had the dream together, and they should see their little village succeed together, even if Madara was spitting fire and nearly making enemies the whole way. It wouldn’t be right for Hashirama to do this without her, and she needed Madara’s warm presence next to her.

So Madara sat on her left side, stormy expression and all, while Tobirama sat on her right as they faced the Uzumaki clan representatives across another handmade wooden table of hers. Tobirama’s face was fixed into one of polite interest, but Hashirama noticed she refused to look at Mito directly. Odd, but at least her sister wasn’t about to vault over the table and out the door. She couldn’t say the same for Madara, whose red eyes were fixed on the threshold like she might summon it to her for a quick escape.

“Most of our agreements and contracts are signed,” Hashirama said, gesturing to the stacks of papers in front of her. “A dozen Uzumaki shinobi will stay here in Konoha with Mito, and in return a few Uchiha and Senju will go to Whirlpool.”

It had taken a week of Hashirama pleading with Madara for her to part with five Uchiha, and even then only Izuna was able to convince her of the need, of the importance of this alliance with the Uzumaki. Now, her lips curled into an almost sneer, but she didn’t interject, thankfully.

Hashirama continued, carefully going through the various little agreements and making sure the Uzumaki signed the appropriate lines. Diplomacy, it seemed, was nothing more than tedious meetings and mountains of paperwork, on anything from food stores to methods of information transferal. And inane arguments, she thought, as one of the Uzumaki clan leaders began to drone on about the need for proper exchange of fish from Whirlpool for harvest from Fire Country. He spoke only to Mito, who seemed completely uninterested. Her eyes were fixed on Tobirama across the table, narrowed slightly like a snake or fox watching something interesting. Tobirama looked acutely uncomfortable, even without meeting Mito’s gaze, but that wasn’t really unusual, if Hashirama was being honest with herself.

Amused and a little bored, Hashirama glanced over at Madara, but the woman was staring at some form in front of her with such concentrated venom that Hashirama was surprised it didn’t immediately burst into flames.

The terms were, finally after hours of discussion, acceptable. The sun hung low in the sky, and Hashirama itched to go eat something. Madara had been nothing but angry lately, but maybe she would agree to go along to the new sushi place down the street, opened by someone from the Sarutobi clan. It was bribery with fried tofu, but Hashirama would stoop lower for Madara to speak to her again.

“And the marriage?” one of the Uzumaki—not a clan leader, Hashirama noticed, but an advisor—asked after a long pause. Madara let out a small huff of air, and somehow her frown grew even more displeased, but she again remained silent.

Mito’s smile looked proud, and she nodded politely at Hashirama and replied, “The Hokage and I agree that it would be in the best interest for our alliance, should Tobirama agree to marry me.”

There was a long pause, and then Madara snapped at Hashirama a flat, “What.”

At the same time, Tobirama made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, muted like she’d tried to silence it before it could escape. Her face flushed faintly pink, and finally she turned her head to face Mito, wide-eyed. “I thought my sister was going to marry you,” and it sounded more like a question than a statement.

Hashirama blinked slowly. “Why would I?” Both Madara and Tobirama whirled around to look at her, for once united in their confusion. It wasn’t the situation she imagined they’d turn against her in, but she’d take it all the same. “I thought everyone knew about this happening?”

Hesitantly, Mito raised her fan in front of her face. “It would be appropriate for a marriage to go through an advisor,” she said, and Hashirama got the distinct impression she was trying not to laugh. Madara’s mouth opened and snapped shut loudly. “I didn’t mean to offend the Uchiha, of course,” she added.

Madara grunted, eyeing Hashirama with suspicion instead of answering her.

“That is—acceptable,” Tobirama murmured, quietly, and she reached forward to sign the appropriate agreement papers. Hashirama beamed until the meeting ended, an hour later, with all of the intricate details worked out for the ceremony to take place in three months’ time.

The Uzumaki filed out quickly, chatting amongst themselves loudly. Mito made her way to Tobirama, purposefully, and Hashirama was amused to see her sister frozen to the spot, and unable to do more than make soft affirmative noises to whatever Mito said.

Beside her, Madara slowly stood up from her chair, stretching slightly as she rose. Instead of leaving immediately, she hesitated by Hashirama and tilted slightly to face her. Her expression was inscrutable—but positive, Hashirama was certain.

“Dinner?” she asked Madara, making sure to flash one of her widest smiles.

Madara considered her for a moment, then muttered, “Fine.” She sounded annoyed, but she followed Hashirama closely out the door anyway, and she seemed surprisingly relaxed as they made their way to the sushi stand.

* * *

Hashirama started to visit Mito more frequently in her home on the outskirts of the village once the alliance was properly settled. It was quaint and smaller than was probably appropriate considering Mito’s position, but it was made by Hashirama personally, and the dark wood thrummed with remnants of her chakra.

She usually found Tobirama already sitting with Mito, quietly chatting about something or another, and visibly more at ease than she had been before the marriage proposal was worked out. Tobirama looked at Mito almost sweetly, and Hashirama felt a bit of pride at seeing her sister act so domestic around someone, even if she was still mostly stiff and uptight.

But today, remarkably, she walked into Mito’s home to find Madara, dressed in her armor like she had just come back from scouting the areas around the village and stopped for tea on her way home.

She was leaning forward, lounging almost comfortably with her sharp elbows on the table and her legs sprawled beneath her, typical of shinobi raised only to be mercenaries. When Hashirama strolled in, knocking lightly on the threshold without stopping, Madara gave her a look that would read as placid indifference to anyone else, but Hashirama liked to think that she could decipher her mood after years of practice: content, maybe even pleased to see her, unwound somewhat but not too much.

A light, bubbling feeling settled in Hashirama’s chest, and she sat down in the empty space next to Madara, because that was what she always did.

Across the table from them, Mito, for once, appeared very casual in clothing meant for sparring. Her arms, usually hidden by her soft robes, were decorated with black ink drawn in the intricate writing of seals. Some were common enough, little circles used to summon shuriken or kunai in the middle of a fight, but most were unintelligible. Hashirama was certain that Mito told Tobirama some of the deeper secrets of her clan’s sealing techniques, but both were quiet on the subject to others.

“You have twigs in your hair,” Hashirama said to Madara, instead of a greeting. Her cheeks hurt like she was smiling too much.

Madara shrugged with one shoulder, and some leaves tumbled out of her messy hair and onto the floor. Hashirama liked the sound her hair made when it moved against her armor; the soft hissing noise was nice and familiar, and now she could associate it more with Madara trying to protect the village than with their old fights.

Mito didn’t notice the sudden mess on her floor, or at least she was content to ignore it for now. “Hashirama,” she said. Poised, even though Hashirama had just walked in unannounced. “I was hoping to see you soon. My mother sent me an old kimono, from an aunt who was your size.”

“Really?” Hashirama blurted out, instantly overwhelmed with excitement. She turned to say something to Madara—she wasn’t sure what, really, beyond some happy rambling—but the words died on her lips when she saw the strange look on Madara’s face.

Hashirama felt herself grow instinctively defensive, but she forced the tension to roll out of her shoulders. Madara was aware, more than anyone else, of what Hashirama wanted to look like, when she no longer had to wear armor and a tattered uniform every day, even if she maybe looked strange in a kimono with her broad shoulders and flat chest. Her look wasn’t judgmental, just—undefinable.

“That would be good,” Madara said finally, in a strangely gentle voice. She seemed lost for any other words, but she mustered a crooked smile on her face, anyways, and slanted her head so that her hair hid the grin from Mito.

Hashirama’s breath caught in her throat. “Thank you,” she said, to both of them, and dipped her head slightly, before she forgot to be polite.

The smile dropped off Madara’s face (they were always so temporary around other people, Hashirama mourned), and she took a stiff sip of tea to give off an emotionless air. She was, Hashirama noticed, fully under the sunlight streaming in from the windows. It gave her a warm appearance, lighting up all of the little cuts and marks on her face and neck, but somehow she looked a little softer because of it.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hashirama could see Mito looking at her intensely, and she felt the sudden urge to move back and away from her analytical stare as Mito started to open her mouth to speak.

Whatever she was about to say was cut off by the sound of light footsteps, and Hashirama turned to see Izuna step into the room. He paused briefly, quirking an eyebrow at Hashirama, before sitting next to Mito. Hashirama finally noticed the partly empty cup in front of her, and it occurred to her that she must have sat in his place, but Madara seemed unconcerned with sitting by her.

Truthfully, his presence explained a lot: Madara seemed at best neutral to Mito, but Izuna clearly liked her, and Madara went along with him always, even if only for a little while.

“Sorry,” she told him, and he waved her off good-naturedly before launching into some easy and interesting conversation.

* * *

Sometimes, after a day filled with mountains of paper and nothing else, Hashirama sought out Madara for a spar. There were plenty of places outside of the village where they could fight, uninterrupted, and Madara was always willing to humor her, especially since her mood had lightened tremendously. And so, muscles aching from disuse, Hashirama left her outer robes in her office and went to find Madara in the streets of Konoha to drag her to the nearest clearing.

Madara fought like a demon, seemingly reckless in the way she flung herself at her opponents with a snarl on her lips. She was nothing if not precise, however, with no wasted movements or breath as she punched and kicked someone into the dirt. The rumors about her across Fire Country all said the same thing: wild, vicious, monstrous, and even when sparring against Hashirama outside their little village, she was no different.

Her arm had almost snapped, Hashirama was certain, from Madara’s grip before the woman flung her at the nearest tree. Body twisting in midair, she landed easily on the trunk, and her chakra unconsciously pooled in her feet to keep her steady before it flared through her calves and thighs. The bark splintered from the burst of chakra as she threw herself back at Madara, bruising arm raised with a fist.

Madara met her with a kick to the gut, even as she stumbled back from Hashirama’s punch, and spat blood on the ground. Bitten tongue, probably, Hashirama thought as they tumbled away from each other, feet skidding on the dirt. She paused for a moment to even her breathing, but Madara was already lunging forward. Speed was always Madara’s strength, more so than her wiry muscles, and Hashirama had to jump to evade her sweeping kick, twisting out of reach before an outstretched fist could reach her cheek.

It always went like this, the two of them weaving around each other, too closely matched to really get the upper hand. But there was something good in fighting, after sitting at a desk surrounded by paperwork all day, and Hashirama found fighting Madara to be especially good for her heart, even if Madara hit hard enough to crack bones. She had never really known how to hold back; it was everything or nothing with her.

Hashirama aimed a jab at her shoulder, and Madara’s eyes tracked the motion in a red blur. She leaned just far enough away to evade, then wrapped a hand around Hashirama’s overextended wrist and dragged them closer together. She had always felt warm, like a furnace, and now against Hashirama’s bare skin her hand felt like her fire jutsu.

“Stop grinning like that,” Madara snapped, but her own teeth were bared in a wild smile to match. She fluidly side-stepped a kick and slammed her knee into Hashirama’s thigh. “It’s distracting.”

“Am I smiling?” Hashirama asked, almost teasing, but she felt herself flush at the words. Their arms were locked together still, so she tried for another punch with a free hand, and Madara audibly ground her teeth together when it connected with her abdomen.

Madara shoved her face forward, bright red eyes just inches from Hashirama’s own, and her breath caught in her throat. No genjutsu, as promised for their spars, but the swirling tomoe were enough of a distraction on their own that Hashirama didn’t notice a hand weaving through her hair, and suddenly she was on the ground, face pressed into the dirt. Madara let out a boom of laughter, and pressed a knee onto Hashirama’s back so she couldn’t move.

It was rare to hear Madara laugh, but during a fight she was free with her joy, and there was little she enjoyed more than fighting, especially with her. The thought made Hashirama’s heart swell in her chest, to know that Madara valued her for something, even it was just a sparring match.

Madara leaned in close, and her hair fell around them both in a dark tangled mess, sticking to their sweaty skin. When she spoke, Hashirama could feel the damp heat of her breath on her neck. “My win, this time.” 

On instinct, Hashirama opened her lips to say something—a joke, maybe, or some light comment about their current running score—but her mouth was suddenly very dry, and she quietly tilted her head to look up instead. Madara had an odd expression on her face, a mix of uncertainty and something else Hashirama couldn’t quite place. A bruise had started to form on her cheek. She quickly stood up, jerkily and ungracefully, relieving the pressure Hashirama’s spine. For a brief and strange second, Hashirama missed the contact.

“I should go back,” Madara said in a strained voice, keeping her gaze level with the space above Hashirama’s head. She motioned stiffly to the village behind them. “Izuna wants to meet with the clan elders.” Pausing, she glanced down at Hashirama for a moment, then flickered out of sight in a cluster of leaves.

“Wait,” Hashirama said to the empty air, frustrated at herself for feeling so upset.

* * *

Embarrassingly enough, Hashirama came to a realization about herself while sitting with Tobirama and Mito as they discussed ceremony plans. The conversation was entirely unromantic, and mostly an excuse for the two of them to chat about sealing mechanics while Hashirama actually spent time planning floral arrangements. She would be annoyed about them pushing off the work to her, but she admittedly found it enjoyable.

“I think camellia might be appropriate,” she said. She didn’t receive an immediate response, which she took as a good sign, so she added the flowers to her ever-growing list of suggestions. “Madara said they looked nice last time I grew some.”

Tobirama fixed her with a level stare. “Must you always talk about her?” she asked, aggrieved. Hashirama could see the twitch in her jaw that meant she was annoyed.

“I don’t,” Hashirama said reflexively, but the response felt empty. She knew she mentioned Madara more than was typical for friends, but it made sense to her: they had been close since childhood and created a village together. It was normal, of course, even if Tobirama disagreed.

Mito shook her head at the conversation, and said sweetly, “I would like camellias,” and then she looked back to Tobirama and started to speak in low tones about a complicated eight-point sealing technique.

With a pleased huff, Hashirama returned to her work and began sketching out specific arrangements. As much as she loved Konoha, planning all of the details needed to make the village run was exhausting and tedious, and this by comparison was far more relaxing.

Her mind kept going back to Madara, however. That wasn’t unusual in itself, as Hashirama found herself thinking about her friend quite often, about the way Madara opened herself up around her and the way they were allowed to interact now, without worrying about their clans and paid contracts. Madara occupied her thoughts more than usual lately, though, in a way that made Hashirama feel a little unsettled, like she was missing—something.

Being near Madara hurt tremendously, Hashirama realized. The steady pressure in her chest turned into a wildfire when she sat with Madara, and it made her hands sweaty and her mouth dry. Her skin thrummed, almost itchy, like it did in the seconds before a fight. It made her restless. The ache had only grown worse over time, every moment she looked at Madara’s sharp face or inhaled the acrid smoke that seemed to cling to her skin, but she never paid it much mind until right now.

Hashirama finally put two and two together, and she wanted to smack herself for being so incredibly obtuse.

“I think I love her,” Hashirama mumbled, and she buried her face in her hands.

Mito laughed, even as Tobirama let out a disgusted noise and turned away. They didn’t bother asking who she was talking about. “I know. The whole village knows.”

“I think the neighboring villages know,” Tobirama added.

Hashirama groaned lowly. “I didn’t know until just now,” she whined. “That’s not fair.”

“If you didn’t know until now,” Tobirama ground out, “then you’re stupid.” There was the quick sound of shifting clothing, then a thud as Mito swatted her with a fan. “I’m not sorry,” added Tobirama, petulant. “You should’ve seen them growing up together.”

“We were constantly at war with each other!” Hashirama looked up, blushing hotly, and met Mito’s amused stare. The woman could be heartless, for all her trained manners; she was cruel, like most kunoichi, and very pleasant about it. “We were fighting!”

“You made eyes at her every fight,” Tobirama snapped. “It was uncomfortable for the rest of us.”

She was—not wrong, Hashirama admitted. If she looked at Madara with even a fraction of what she felt now, it must have been obvious to everyone around them. Groaning loudly now, she buried her face in her hands again. “Completely unfair,” she repeated, and Mito laughed loudly and unabashedly until she was out of breath.

* * *

Hashirama’s life didn’t particularly change after her, admittedly late, realization. Honestly, she felt like the world should have shifted, or something else equally dramatic, but things continued to move along in the same way as they always did. She spent most of her days doing paperwork or meeting with diplomats from the new neighboring villages or Fire Country nobles. She still ate lunch with Mito or Tobirama or Izuna, and she still ate dinner sometimes with Madara up on the cliff overlooking the village, and she continued to spar with Madara every few days in the evening.

It was just harder now to suppress the desire to touch Madara, and Hashirama spent much of her time desperately trying to keep herself from reaching out and running her fingers through Madara’s tangled hair, or from grasping her scarred hands between her own. When Madara smiled, Hashirama had to tense so she didn’t lean over and kiss her. During their fights, when Madara’s skin was slick with sweat and she breathed heavily through her nose, Hashirama often slipped up, too entranced to stop Madara from knocking her to the ground, or through the nearest tree. It was decidedly inconvenient, but that didn’t stop the longing feelings from catching Hashirama off-guard if Madara so much as glanced in her general direction.

Mito, strangely, seemed to pity her tremendously, and she often allowed Hashirama to whine at her about the situation and offered to do her hair in the traditional styles Hashirama so envied while they talked. Tobirama, upon seeing her sister miserably drag herself into the house, immediately made a quick exit to the garden and made sure to scoff loudly in Hashirama’s ear on the way out the door.

“You know, Madara’s cheekbones are really too sharp, even if they suit her,” Hashirama said. She tried to glance over her shoulder to Mito, who was sitting gracefully behind her and meticulously brushing her hair with a fine comb.

“I know you can’t help it,” Mito drawled drily, cutting her off. “But you need to be quiet and stop moving.” She tugged roughly on Hashirama’s hair, combing out the more bristly sections until it was straight and smooth.

“Sorry,” Hashirama said sheepishly, tilting her head forward again. The repetitive motion was relaxing, and she found herself leaning back slightly as Mito finally finished brushing her hair and began to gather a section of her hair into a small bun. “I just—can’t help it.”

Mito hummed, non-committal, and quickly pinned Hashirama’s hair against her head. “I found some ornaments you might like,” she said instead of replying. “Golden blossoms, which will look beautiful in your hair and with that pale robe of yours.”

Delicately, Mito wove the hair piece into the base of the bun, tugging on it gently to make sure it didn’t move. Satisfied, she continued, “Keep it, please. I have another one, with jade stones, that you should take too. I know you don’t have many.”

“Thank you,” Hashirama said quietly. Her throat was growing very tight, and she could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “This—” she started, wanting to express how much it meant to her, even after having done this so many times in the garden, to look like this elegant version of herself, but Mito interrupted her sharply.

“Lovely as you are, Hashirama, I’d like to spend some time with my fiancé.” She pressed a small wooden box into Hashirama’s hands. Curious, she opened them to find the other hair pins, glittering in the afternoon sunlight. “Go bother Madara or something,” she said, and though it was a dismissal, her voice was terribly kind.

* * *

Hashirama found Madara sitting on their cliff overlooking Konoha some hours later, dressed in scuffed-up armor with a sword stabbed into the ground next to her. Even in the dark, the deep shadows under her eyes were noticeable, and her mouth was drawn into a tight line. She held herself like a self-appointed guard dog, scanning the tents and wooden buildings and the surrounding trees in the same jarringly fast pattern, over and over again.

“You should sleep,” Hashirama said, but she sat down next to Madara anyways, drawing her legs under herself comfortably.

Madara scoffed. “I would think the Hokage should get some more sleep, instead of harassing her villagers,” she replied loftily. The tired lines around her eyes softened as she teased, and she gave a lopsided smile, though she continued to look down into the valley.

Hashirama shoved her shoulder and squawked, “I’m looking out for you! Maybe if you slept more, you wouldn’t have such a scary face.”

Predictably, the smile slid off Madara’s face and morphed into a scowl. She raised a pointed finger at Hashirama. “If you wanted to look out for people, you wouldn’t let them carve your ugly face into the rock. How are children supposed to sleep at night?”

Hashirama let out a wounded cry, placing her hand over her heart, and she groaned about her cruelty until Madara started to laugh softly, shoving at her until she stopped whining. Her neck warmed at the sound, and she grinned so widely that her cheeks hurt.

Madara quirked an eyebrow at her. “I—like your hair ornaments,” she said gruffly. She quickly looked away again. “They suit you.”

“Thank you,” Hashirama said, hoarse, and she launched into a story to cover up the soreness in her throat at the compliment.

It was easy to slide into their old ritual of Hashirama chatting about her day while Madara listened and nodded along every few minutes. She let Hashirama fill the silence between them, content to just keep staring down at the village as lights slowly flickered out. Out of habit, Hashirama avoided mentioning Tobirama, and instead talked at length about the new training program she was planning to propose. She switched topics every so often, mentioning an Uzumaki shinobi who followed Izuna like a puppy across the village (“I saw him,” Madara sniffed at that. “Some idiot who can’t hide his tracks.”) and Mito’s impressive naginata skills.

Beside her, Madara gradually relaxed, until she was lounging back on her hands and staring up at the moon. It was rare to see her so calm, unless Izuna was around, but sometimes Hashirama could draw out this side of her. She wanted it, so badly, to have Madara happy around her, relaxed and smiling and teasing. She wanted Madara to want her back with the same intensity, to feel just as overwhelmed with the need to have her.

Hashirama paused, and the sudden stop in her rambling chatter made Madara tilt her head. She glanced over with hooded eyes, a silent question, but Hashirama’s heart had risen into her throat at the sight and she couldn’t speak around it. She felt very raw, listening to Madara’s soft and even breathing, with their village below them, quiet and peaceful. Their village, their shared dream, and the woman who helped make it real.

The distinctive clatter of Madara’s armor as she shifted drew Hashirama out of her swarming thoughts. “Hashirama?” she asked. When she didn’t get a reply, she leaned over so close that her hair brushed against Hashirama’s hand, curled in the grass between them. 

Hashirama didn’t know what to say, so she waited, eyes fixed on Madara’s, bright and vibrant red in the dark. She swallowed roughly, and her mouth worked soundlessly for a few long moments.

“What?” Madara asked, and now her voice sounded guarded. She leaned back, looking like a caged animal, like the world was becoming too close around her.

“No, wait, I—” Hashirama’s fingers curled into the dirt. “I just—” She couldn’t seem to finish the sentence, and Madara pulled even further away, expression shuttered.

It seemed logical, then, for Hashirama to cup Madara’s cheek—scarred, a little rough, but fitted perfectly against her palm—with a steady hand. Madara tensed immediately, and she looked at Hashirama silently but she didn’t move away when Hashirama pressed a kiss to her sharp jaw, then the corner of her mouth. Her lips were surprisingly soft, and Hashirama’s eyes fluttered shut at the feeling.

“Oh,” Madara whispered, and then she turned her head slightly to kiss Hashirama fully, surging forward so she could wrap an arm tightly around Hashirama’s waist. The calloused hand she placed on Hashirama’s cheek trembled minutely, and it occurred to her that Madara was, underneath it all, a very gentle person.

Internally gentle, at least, because the way she kissed was rough and bruising, and Hashirama felt dizzy, overwhelmed with a warm feeling of want filling her chest, as Madara tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her closer. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, but Hashirama could still hear the soft, low noises Madara was making, and her nerves were on fire under her skin.

“Hey,” Hashirama said when Madara pulled back slightly. The words bubbled out of her like laughter. She tried to look at Madara, but she couldn’t focus on the face just inches from their own. “I love you, you know.”

“You don’t have to say it out loud,” Madara grumbled. She pressed forward more forcefully and leaned heavily against her chest, cutting off Hashirama’s happy reply (“Of course I do!”) with another wet kiss, and Hashirama smiled into her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway i drew some art for this on [my tumblr](http://lesbiansenju.tumblr.com/post/170817072181/lesbian-hashimada-from-my-fic-heartlines-ft-a)


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